Stronger Now
By Lokanath Mishra
Sometimes life breaks you so completely that even destiny forgets your worth—
until a tiny heartbeat reminds the world who you are.
Four years of marriage passed like a room with no windows.
Raunak woke before sunrise every day.
She cooked. She cleaned. She prayed.
And then she waited—
for a smile,
a word,
a touch.
None came.
Aditya was never cruel, but he was never kind either. He spoke little, avoided her eyes, and always looked tired—tired of explanations, tired of hope, tired of waiting for a miracle that refused to arrive.
The relatives filled the silence with whispers.
“She’s unlucky.”
“He should try his luck somewhere else.”
“What kind of woman can’t give a child?”
Those words didn’t just linger in the air.
They sank into the walls.
Into the floor.
Into Raunak’s bones.
Even the house she lived in seemed ashamed of her.
One afternoon, Raunak sat on the cold kitchen floor, her back against the cabinet, her tears soaking the edge of her sari. She wasn’t sobbing anymore—she was empty.
Her sister Meera walked in unannounced and froze.
She didn’t ask softly.
She didn’t offer comfort.
She slapped the floor beside her and said sharply,
“Enough. Crying won’t save you.”
Raunak whispered, barely audible,
“I’m tired.”
Meera knelt in front of her and held her face firmly.
“Then stand up. Get tested again. One last time. Not for them. For yourself.”
The report trembled in Raunak’s hands.
Positive.
She laughed and cried at the same time, clutching the paper as if it might vanish if she loosened her grip. When she told Aditya, his expression changed—not joy, not relief, but shock, as though life had caught him unprepared.
When Kavita Sharma her mother in law, found out, she touched Raunak’s feet for the first time.
From that day on, her mother-in-law spoke to Raunak’s belly every morning.
“My little one… come soon.”
The same woman who had once told her son to leave.
Funny how one tiny heartbeat makes people remember your worth.
Pregnancy softened the house—
but not the marriage.
Aditya remained distant, polite, present in body but absent in soul. Love that arrives too late often doesn’t stay long. When Munna was born, Raunak felt complete for the first time in years.
Yet she was still alone.
Aditya stood beside her, but something in him had already walked away.
Six months later, the word fell like a sentence.
“Divorce.”
No shouting.
No accusations.
Just exhaustion.
The judge spoke. The papers were signed.
Five years of marriage ended with a stamp.
Outside the courtroom, Aditya walked toward an auto-rickshaw. Raunak followed and sat beside him without asking.
The engine started.
She said softly,
“I want to take my last journey to the bus station with you.”
Aditya stared straight ahead.
“I’ll pay the alimony in two or three months. I’ll sell the house… I built it for you. What will I do with it now?”
Raunak replied quickly, almost urgently,
“Don’t sell it. I don’t need money. I’ve been selected for a government job . I can support Munna and myself.”
The auto stopped suddenly.
Raunak lurched forward—
but Aditya’s hand shot out and grabbed her arm.
For a moment, they froze.
She looked at him through wet eyes and smiled faintly.
“We’re separated… but you haven’t lost your habit of caring.”
Silence wrapped them like an old, familiar blanket.
After a pause, Aditya asked quietly,
“It’s been two months … did you miss me?”
Raunak answered without hesitation,
“In two months , she hasn’t come even once.”
He turned toward her, his voice breaking.
“She used to sleep with your hand as a pillow.”
They got down.
The crowd moved around them, but time stood still. Aditya held Raunak’s hand—just once. That single touch shattered her restraint.
She cried like she had on the kitchen floor year ago—
but this time, someone saw her.
He said softly,
“Come on. Let’s go home.”
Raunak froze.
“What about the divorce papers?”
Aditya smiled—the first real smile in years.
“I’ll tear them up.”
She didn’t answer.
She broke down.
She hugged him as if the world had finally stopped punishing her.
Behind them, the relatives quietly boarded the bus and disappeared.
Stronger Now.
Not all comebacks are loud.
Some are quiet.
Some are stubborn.
Some are born from surviving what was meant to destroy you.
Raunak returned home—not weaker, not desperate—but stronger. Not because someone finally accepted her, but because she had endured rejection and lived.
Love didn’t return because of relatives.
It returned because two people finally spoke.
Epilogue
Don’t leave relationships to relatives.
Talk to each other.
Make your own decisions.
Because sometimes, the strongest comeback begins after the deepest break.
If you believe in comebacks, say:
“Stronger now.”